


In Which Crowley Is a Guardian Demon and Aziraphale Is, in His Own Way, a Guardian Angel

by easybeak



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crying, Drinking, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Pining, Pre-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), accidental love confession, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:07:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easybeak/pseuds/easybeak
Summary: Crowley has known Aziraphale as far back as he can remember.Of course, he's loved his angel almost that long, too. It's hard not to, when he looks up at him with those big, blue puppy dog eyes and practicallybegsfor it... he's been doing little favors for him forever, keeping him safe.And some point along the way, he fell in love. Who could blame him?No secret can last forever, though. All Crowley can hope for is that Aziraphale won't resent him for it.





	In Which Crowley Is a Guardian Demon and Aziraphale Is, in His Own Way, a Guardian Angel

Crowley used to write letters to Aziraphale, back when love letters had been popular. That had been centuries ago. He’d written hundreds, if not more than that, but at some point during the eighteen hundreds, they’d stopped. It simply hadn’t been worth it anymore. Aziraphale would never feel the same way. 

He’d tried to forget about the letters. They were embarrassing—he kept them locked away in a box in a cabinet, buried under another pile of papers that was also collecting dust. 

He managed to keep them hidden for quite some time, until one night in the early two thousands when he finally decided that it was time for some well-overdue spring cleaning. So, he’d cracked open a bottle of wine, opened up some cabinets, and started sorting papers. 

It wasn’t a fun task, he found. He was mid-way through his third bottle of wine, but still determined to finish the task at hand, when he found the letters. 

That wasn’t to say that he’d ever forgotten about them. He’d always known that they were there, folded up into that neat little bundle and tied with string, which he’d placed in the little biscuit tin that he’d taken from Aziraphale’s bookshop. The biscuits were called “gavottes.” He’d found them in a little Dutch cafe some time ago and brought them home for him, and, predictably, Aziraphale had loved them. 

The letters were yellowed with age now, he discovered.  _ Had it really been so long ago?  _ The date on the first letter confirmed that it had. It was the earliest one, he remembered, precisely because of the little ink blot from his shaky hands on the numbers  _ 1788\.  _ The penmanship of the rest of the letter was no better, he was disappointed to discover. Although the flowery, passionate language somewhat made up for it, he was still glad Aziraphale hadn’t had to see.  _ His  _ handwriting had always been lovely, small and neat and completely uniform throughout the centuries. 

He sat down on the floor with the box, the other four cabinets still unopened but forgotten. Beside him, the cork on the next bottle of wine popped out. It might have been his fourth, or it could have been more than that. Who was counting? Certainly not Crowley. 

He unfolded the letters, plucked the first one off the top of the stack, and began to read. 

_ To my angel Aziraphale— _

He didn’t make it much further than the first paragraph, although this first letter spanned nearly three pages if he remembered correctly. 

The wine made his hands unsteady. Or he’d have liked to blame it on the wine, but really, he knew that it wasn’t. He clutched at the paper so tightly that it wrinkled, looking down at it in silence. He’d been so naive back then. He’d written to Aziraphale so sincerely, and he’d had every intent to send these letters… but he wouldn’t dare to show him now. He’d only reject him. 

Aziraphale didn’t even like to call him a friend, so what made him think that he’d want something more than that? 

He sighed, folding the letters back up. He placed them back in the box without even looking at them. Shakily, he got up from the floor—it really was the wine this time—and closed the cabinet. The rest of his spring cleaning would have to wait until tomorrow night, or perhaps some other night when he was less… emotional. Disgusting. That was disgusting—he was a demon, and for all his other flaws he didn’t need to get so emotional over something so  _ trivial.  _

He picked up the box of letters, and the wine bottles vanished with a snap of his fingers. He’d have to put the box somewhere more secure.  _ Really  _ forget about it this time. Another night like this one wouldn’t do him any good. 

But the wine had addled his brain more than he’d thought, and although he’d originally intended to go right to bed, he spent a good bit of time stumbling around the flat as he tried to decide where, exactly, the box should go. Under the bed was too obvious, and far too  _ ordinary.  _ He didn’t want to climb onto a chair in order to put it on top of a bookcase, for fear of falling, and hiding it  _ in  _ the bookcase would make it too easy to see. He could leave it for tomorrow, and just go to bed, he reasoned, but what if he decided to open it again in the meantime?

The thing was like Pandora’s box, all full of misery and unrequited love. He just wanted to get rid of it. 

He could  _ burn  _ it. 

He’d had more alcohol in the meantime—whiskey, this time. Not wine. Much stronger stuff. Burning the letters was starting to sound like a very, very good idea indeed. He’d never have to worry about them again, because they really would be gone for good. He’d be safe. 

That sold him. 

He went into the kitchen with the box. His hands shook as he took the letters out, holding them over the sink. They rested there in his palms, still bound together with string, and the bundle was so thick that he found himself wondering how he’d even managed to write so many. It took him a moment to summon the fire. He almost didn’t want to do it. It felt as though it was all his love for Aziraphale, there in his hands, which was all about to go up in flames—but then again, that was what he wanted. 

If he burned these letters, all his pining would burn up with them. He’d never have to worry again. Aziraphale would be just a friend to him. Like he so obviously wanted to be. 

This was the right thing to do. 

The letters crackled as they burned. The fire spread from his fingertips, catching the top edges of the newest letters, the ones on the bottom of the stack. The fire spread, bright orange. The edges of the letters curled and burned black, turning to ash, which fell into the sink. Crowley made out an  _ angel  _ as it burned away. 

The fire was spreading so fast, the letters disintegrating in his fingers. He didn’t want them to go. The ones on the bottom were already beyond saving, little more than a few ragged bits of ash. But the ones on the top and in the middle were all right. 

He willed the fire to stop. There was a moment of panic when it seemed to only burn brighter, but slowly and gradually, it burned out. 

The remaining letters were ragged and looked as if they’d fall to pieces with one touch, but he knew that they’d hold together. He set the remains on the counter, looking down at the letter on the top. 

_ To my angel Aziraphale— _

_ I love you. It is such a relief to write the words. I love you. I love you. I love you. Someday you’ll see this letter, angel. I don’t know what you’ll think, when you do, but it’ll be such a relief. I don’t believe you’ll hold it against me, even if you don’t feel the same.  _

_ If any angel is really, truly a being of love, it’s you.  _

From there, the rest of the page was burned away, but Crowley remembered what it said. 

Being of love or not, Aziraphale would never love someone like him. He was Aziraphale’s friend, but to him, Crowley was just a mild acquaintance. If he showed him the letters, or what was left of them, he’d be  _ scornful.  _

The page had been dry and brittle from the fire, but it was suddenly wet with tears. Crowley made an effort to move the letters out of the way as he fell forward against the kitchen counter, his shoulders shaking with sobs. 

He hated himself for being so naive—that had been two hundred years ago, more, now, but that was hardly any excuse. He’d known, deep down, from the beginning. Aziraphale could never love him, no matter how well they happened to know each other or how much he  _ seemed  _ to want something more than friendship. But they weren’t even friends, so he said. 

He’d never forgive himself for this. He felt  _ weak _ , drunk and crying over Aziraphale in his dark kitchen. And who was he kidding? He was weak. He was  _ beyond  _ weak, he was pathetic. He cried harder, his shoulders shuddering. He shoved his face into his hands in an effort to make it stop or at least to muffle the sound—someone might hear. It terrified him that someone might hear. 

When he finally stopped, it was only because he’d fired himself out. He couldn’t cry anymore, even if he wanted to. 

He wiped his face on his sleeve, sniffling softly. He’d make himself some tea and then go to bed. That was long overdue—it was late, and he was more exhausted than ever. 

He set about clumsily making himself a cup of tea. The letters remained on the kitchen counter, next to the sink. 

He’d calmed down somewhat by the time he finished drinking his tea, although his feelings of guilt lingered with him. He’d lost nearly two thirds of the letters, something he could never repair or replace. He’d wanted to re-read them… It was as though a piece of Aziraphale had gone with them. His chance to show them to him certainly was. 

He’d been about to go to bed—really, this time—but he couldn’t do that yet. Even though it was approaching two in the morning. He had something far more important to accomplish first, and there was no telling how long it would take. 

He snapped his fingers and a pen and paper appeared on the table in front of him. It wasn’t the high-quality stationery, nor the old fountain pen, that he’d favored in the old days, but it would serve the purpose. He picked it up and started writing, with no real thought to where the letter was going. 

_ My angel Aziraphale,  _

_ I know now that you’ll never see these letters. I’m sorry. But it’s better that way. You’d be angry with me—I don’t want you to be angry. Not over this, something as stupid as my feelings towards you.  _

_ I know your feelings towards me aren’t quite as warm as mine are towards you. I’m sorry. I’ve done everything I can to control it but nothing works. I still love you, and I suppose… I’ll just have to keep it to myself. Just me and these letters. I wish more than anything that I could tell you. I’ve wanted it ever since the Bastille, I think. Or perhaps earlier. I don’t remember. But you’ll be happier not knowing.  _

_ You’ve been so kind to me, even if you insist that we aren’t friends, for heavenly reasons or otherwise. Perhaps that’s just your excuse, and if it is, I can accept that.  _

He stopped writing.  _ Could  _ he accept that? He’d been doing little favors for Aziraphale for years—coming to his rescue in the nineteen forties, for example. In the church. It had been agonizing for him, but so, so worth it to see the look on his face when he realized that the books were safe. And the Bastille, too. 

Yes, he could accept that. His little favors made Aziraphale happy, which was what he wanted. And if Aziraphale didn’t want to be called his friend, or anything more intimate, then… so be it. It was just another little favor. 

He set the pen down and stood up abruptly from the chair. He’d come back to all this in the morning. After his lunch date with Aziraphale. 

_ Oh, no.  _

He and Aziraphale had planned a lunch date. Could he go? He’d be hungover in the morning, and the letters would weigh heavily on his mind for a while… Aziraphale would be able to tell. He could always tell when something was wrong with Crowley, and he never failed to point it out in detail. Often, he made him explain what was bothering him. 

He couldn’t lie to him in order to get out of it—he was a terrible liar. 

He’d never missed a lunch date, and he hated to do it now, but surely this was an excuse? Aziraphale would let him get away with it  _ one time.  _ He’d give him some lousy excuse, and everything would be good as new. 

With that decision made, he turned and left the kitchen, making his way to his bedroom to get ready for bed. He was practically asleep on his feet already. 

It seemed as though he’d hardly closed his eyes before his rest was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious whirring noise. It took him a moment to figure out what it was—it was just his cell phone, which he kept on vibrate, sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. The noise hurt his head, and so did the light coming through the windows. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but first he had to turn off the phone. 

He picked it up, barely looking at the caller ID, but the photo was unmistakable. His head gave another throb as his nerves spiked.  _ Aziraphale.  _ He was late for lunch, and he was wondering where he was. 

He didn’t have the heart to ignore his call. He pressed the button to accept it, sitting up stiffly in the bed. 

“Angel?” He mumbled sleepily. 

“Crowley, where are you? I’ve been waiting for you for forty minutes!” His voice had a certain scolding quality to it that Crowley was all too familiar with. He found it adorable, and not the least bit threatening. 

“‘M sorry. I drank a lot last night, Aziraphale. I’m hungover and I guess I slept too long.” That was half of it. 

“I’ve been calling and calling! You haven’t answered once until now! I was frantic.” 

“I’m sorry, angel. It won’t happen again. I’ll be more careful about it next time. Won’t get so hungover. I’ll start getting ready to go.” He made to get out of bed, wincing a little as his head throbbed. He’d sat up too fast, too. It made him dizzy. 

“No,” Aziraphale was saying. “No. You stay there. Forget about lunch. I’m coming over. You sound awful, Crowley. Are you sure you aren’t sick…?” 

“No, I’m not sick,” he replied dutifully, although he was sure he’d never felt sicker in his life. Now that he was sitting up—perhaps it had been the action of sitting up itself that had triggered it—nausea was rising in his throat, and he staggered for the bathroom, still clutching the phone to his ear. “Really. I’m fine.” 

“I’m coming over, Crowley.” 

He didn’t hear. He was kneeling in front of the toilet, already retching. The phone lay forgotten on the floor. Aziraphale’s voice came distantly from it, growing more and more concerned, but he didn’t answer. He was busy throwing up—it was mostly alcohol, and it burned. By the time he was done, Aziraphale had hung up. He was presumably already on his way. It wouldn’t be long, and it was too late to stop him. 

Sure enough, not thirty seconds after Aziraphale hung up the phone, Crowley heard the front door open. “Hello?” A familiar voice called. “Crowley? My dear? It’s me.” 

He flushed the toilet and stood up shakily, making his way out of the bathroom. He paused only to rinse his mouth out a little at the sink before he went to find Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was in the kitchen. Crowley’s heart lurched into his throat when he saw the burnt stack of letters on the counter—so close that Aziraphale’s elbow brushed against them and a bit of ash flaked off. He winced. Hadn’t enough damage been done to those already? But he had bigger problems. He hadn’t read them yet, obviously, but he could do so very easily. The letters were still very legible, and for Christ’s sake, it had the words “Aziraphale” coupled with “I love you” at the very top. He was bound to notice if he so much as glanced over. And there was the one he’d written last night, too, sitting out on the table where he’d left it like an idiot. 

He should have told Aziraphale not to come. 

“Angel,” he said, his voice coming out a little hoarse. His throat hurt. 

“Oh, my dear!” He said, looking up at him with a worried expression on his face that made his gut twist with guilt. “You look dreadful—are you all right?” 

Crowley nodded mutely. 

“Here—I made you a cup of cocoa. Come on, sit down at the table and you can drink it.” 

Aziraphale started over towards the kitchen table, where the letter was—he’d see it at any moment. It was impossible to miss. “Wait,” he said hastily. “I’m—I’m okay here, angel.” 

He turned back to look at him. “Nonsense, my dear. Come on and sit down. You look positively faint.” 

He felt it, too, considering what was on the table. He couldn’t imagine what might happen if Aziraphale saw… he quickly went over to take the cocoa from him. “See? I’m fine here. Don’t need to sit down.” He took a sip, burning his tongue. 

“Crowley,” he said in an exasperated voice. “Please. Come on.” He tugged lightly at his sleeve. 

Crowley resisted, but he was reluctant to fight back, and he found himself being pulled over to the table and man handled into the chair opposite where the letter was sitting. Aziraphale sat down across from him, in the perfect position to read what was written on the paper. He cursed himself for not putting it away properly. He should have known that something like this would happen, his luck was just this terrible. 

He tried not to think about the letter, instead focusing on his drink. To Aziraphale’s credit, it was excellent, but he didn’t get to enjoy it for very long. 

“What’s this?” Aziraphale’s curious voice struck him like a punch to the stomach, and he choked a little on his cocoa. 

“Nothing,” he said quickly. 

“But it has my name on it,” Aziraphale said, pulling it towards himself before Crowley could snatch it from him. 

He watched in terror as he read the letter, which now seemed so much worse than it had been last night. It was almost… perverted. It had seemed all right the night before. It was just a sort of tradition of his, almost like keeping a diary or a journal, a way to vent his feelings without anyone knowing. But now that they were seeing the light of day, it was… different. He felt wrong, bad, like a real demon in the worst way for saying those things about Aziraphale.

He looked up from the letter and met Crowley’s eyes. His eyes were lovely—that clear shade of blue that he loved so much. They sparkled all the time, but particularly when he smiled. He’d written about that smile a thousand times, it seemed…

“Crowley _ , _ ” Aziraphale said. His voice was uncharacteristically low and soft. 

It was impossible to read the expression on his face. Crowley’s chest tightened in fear. “I’m sorry, angel. I know it’s wrong, and I know you don’t want it… I never meant for you to see that letter, angel, I’m sorry,” he said desperately, his voice cracking slightly. 

Aziraphale blinked at him, his face still terrifyingly unreadable. 

“I didn’t want you to see it—you weren’t supposed to know and now you’ll hate me, you didn’t even want to know me to begin with… I’m a  _ demon,  _ after all,” he spat, his eyes beginning to water. “And I’m sorry. I’ll take it back, if you want. I’ll take it back. We can just be friends, or whatever we are. Let’s just forget it.” 

He was crying now, tears falling down his cheeks. He put his hands over his face, shame taking over as he tried to keep Aziraphale from seeing. His shoulders trembled. He felt weak and useless. Aziraphale would think he was pathetic. He  _ was  _ pathetic. 

He wasn’t aware of Aziraphale getting up from his chair and moving around the table until he was beside him, one of his warm, soft hands resting on his shoulder. “Crowley,” he said gently. “Look at me.” 

Crowley did as he was told, lifting his head and looking up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “I’m overreacting.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said gently, reaching up to cup his cheek with one hand, his thumb lightly brushing the tears away. Crowley found himself leaning into his touch—how could he help it? He was so  _ gentle.  _ It felt wonderful. “No, not at all. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked at the letter. It was… none of my business. I should have stayed away.” 

“I shouldn’t have left it out. It was my fault.” He stood up from his chair. “I’m sorry for missing our lunch date, too, angel.” 

Aziraphale was silent. He looked as though he were thinking hard, considering Crowley. He didn’t like that—it was impossible to tell what he was thinking about when he was like this. 

“Angel?” 

“I love you, too,” he blurted out. 

“Angel?” Crowley repeated, perplexed. He wondered if he’d heard right. 

“I love you, Crowley. I read your letter, and… I feel the same way you do. I didn’t know if I should tell you—it would be dreadful if anyone found out—but I can’t stand not telling you. I’m sorry.” 

He looked so guilty, and Crowley didn’t even know what he felt so guilty about—this was wonderful! “No, no, it’s all right,” he said hastily. “You shouldn’t apologize, angel. I’m—I’m glad you told me, this is—this is incredible!” 

“No, Crowley, you don’t understand. It’s  _ dangerous.  _ You know what would happen if anyone found out, don’t you?” He looked genuinely fearful.

“Yes, of course I know. But we’ve been safe for six thousand years. What more could this do? We can hide a little longer,” he said softly. “We’ll be safe, just like always. No one will need to know.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Yes. We can keep having our lunch dates and our meetings in the park and everything else, and I can visit the bookshop and you can come to my flat. Nothing will have to change, unless you want it to. It’s worked so far and nothing needs to change now.” His voice was much more confident now—stronger. It held no trace of the tears or the shame from only a moment before. 

“If—if you’re sure?” Aziraphale asked slowly. 

“I’m sure, angel.” He stood up, reaching over to take his hand in his and pull him close. Aziraphale made a surprised little noise, stumbling a little. He caught him carefully, putting his free arm around his waist. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

To his immense relief, he broke into a smile. “Thank you, my dear, but you’ve _ been _ keeping me safe for roughly six thousand years now. Nothing’s changed.” 

And, Crowley supposed, he was right. He must have been some sort of guardian demon. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale murmured. He looked up at him, a hopeful sort of smile on his face. “Do you feel well enough to go out, my dear?”

**Author's Note:**

> That was my first finished short story-I hope it turned out well! Thank you for reading!


End file.
